


Don’t Judge a Knife by Its Color

by blondsak, Grace_d, whumphoarder



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome May Parker (Spider-Man), Blood and Injury, Gen, Humor, Hurt Peter Parker, Medical Procedures, Minor Surgery, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Protective Tony Stark, Stabbing, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/pseuds/blondsak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/pseuds/Grace_d, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: “Whoa, hold up, hang on,” he says, taking a step closer to get a better look. The blade is probably four inches long and neon purple, while the handle is white with a friendly-looking colorful silicon grip. “Is that a toy knife? Is this a Fisher Price mugging?”“Fuck you, Spidey,” the mugger replies, fumbling for the knife before scrambling back to his feet and brandishing the weapon at Peter.Or, Peter is stabbed by a misleading knife, Tony plays a high stakes game of Operation, and May retains the one brain cell.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 146
Kudos: 632





	Don’t Judge a Knife by Its Color

Reliably, the most troublesome location in Queens on any given night is the midpoint between Spider-Man and his apartment.

Exactly how troublesome that location is will depend on two major variables: first, how close it is to his midnight curfew, and second, how much homework he still has left to do. 

Peter checks the time mid-swing when he feels a familiar buzz at the back of his neck. It’s 11:40, and he’s only got two sheets of calculus due tomorrow, so he swings wide and drops silently onto a rooftop, following the sounds of a scuffle. By the laws of the universe, he’s basically home anyway. 

He slinks to the edge and peeks over—part of his new ‘check twice, web once’ strategy. Two figures are standing in the very darkest corner of what might be the dirtiest alleyway in all of Queens. 

“Just give me the damn money,” one of them says. 

This is definitely a job for Spider-Man. Peter flips from the roof, landing lightly a few meters away from the pair. The confrontation turns to shoving.

Peter coughs politely. The men don’t look.

One man—one, very big man, Peter now realizes—grabs the other guy by the collar and pins him up against the wall. “Listen, you little-” 

“Hey!” Peter yells, stepping forwards. “Hey, hey fellas!” 

Simultaneously, they turn to look at him. 

Peter looks back. 

“Can I help you?” the smaller guy asks. 

_That’s my line,_ Peter thinks, but instead steps forward. “More like, can I help _you?”_ he asks the smaller man, whose feet are nearly off the ground, dangling in the larger man’s grasp by his jean jacket. 

The two men exchange a glance. 

“You interrupted us,” the bigger guy accuses.

“Let him go,” Peter orders.

“Me? This little _weasel,”_ the big guy says, and gives the smaller one a shake for emphasis, “just tried to rob me.”

Peter looks between them. “Wait, this guy?” He frowns at the smaller man. _“You_ tried to mug”—he waves up and down, indicating to the entirety of the man’s Dwayne Johnson-esque body—“this guy?! That seems like, such a bad idea.”

Both men look offended. 

“Hey, I have a knife!” the smaller one protests at the exact same moment that the larger man balks, “He’s got a fucking knife!”

Peter can’t see a weapon from this angle, but if they’re in agreement about it, he figures it’s true. “Still. I don’t know who I should be saving here.” He shifts his gaze from the man against the wall’s flushed, sweaty face, to the one pinning him. “You better let him down.”

“Hell no,” the larger man scowls. “I’m not letting him go until he drops the knife.” He angles his elbow against the other man’s windpipe a bit more forcefully, causing the small man to squirm. 

“Okay! Okay!” the mugger wheezes. Peter sees a flash of something purple and metallic clatter to the ground behind his leg. “Happy?”

The bigger guy— _victim?_ —huffs in apparent satisfaction. He releases the mugger with a final shove and spins on his heel to stomp off. Meanwhile, the mugger, thrown off balance by the push, falls to the ground beside the purple object, which Peter only now realizes must be the knife.

“Whoa, hold up, hang on,” he says, taking a step closer to get a better look. The blade is probably four inches long and neon purple, while the handle is white with a friendly-looking colorful silicone grip. “Is that a toy knife? Is this like, a Fisher Price mugging?”

“Fuck you, Spidey,” the mugger replies, fumbling for the knife before scrambling back to his feet and brandishing the weapon at Peter. 

“Oh no,” he deadpans. “You’ve found my weakness, playdough utensils. Whatever will I do.”

The mugger frowns, looking thoroughly displeased at his lack of fear. “I’ll have you know this blade is made from premium zirconium oxide, _and_ it has an ergonomic handle. Perfect for–” 

Peter watches as the mugger makes a slicing motion in the air, before looking back at him with a raised eyebrow, as if to check if he’s impressed. “See? No chance of wrist pain with this baby.”

Peter snorts. “Is that supposed to be threatening?” he asks. “Because honestly dude, everything you just said sounded like a lame infomercial. Wait, is there like, a criminal outfitter channel I haven’t heard about? Has the Home Shopping Network decided to diversify? I mean, it’s not the new branding I’d personally go with, but what do I know about–”

“My step-mom got it at a tupperware party, okay?” the mugger interjects defensively.

“Wait, wait a sec,” Peter says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “This knife isn’t even yours? Of all the ones you could have stolen, _that’s_ the one you went with?” Peter puts a hand over his eyes, shaking his head disappointingly. “I gotta tell you, nobody is ever going to take you seriously with a bright purple– ow!”

There’s a slight pinch just then right below his navel. Peter drops his arm and looks down—lenses widening when he sees the purple-and-white handle sticking out from his gut. After a beat Peter slowly raises his head to look back up at the mugger, who seems just as surprised as he does at what happened.

“Oh,” Peter says faintly. “That’s uh… that’s actually kinda sharp…”

Before he can say more, the mugger suddenly turns and books it down the alley, Peter watching him go with a scowl. 

“Not cool, my dude,” he mutters, before sending out a web. The mugger trips when it attaches to his leg, going down with a yelp. Before he can get back up, Peter sends out another one, covering the man and trapping him to the pavement.

“And that’s...” Peter takes a deep breath, trying to project his voice down the alley. It stutters in his chest. Is his suit getting tighter? He looks down to check. Oh gross, yeah, no, there’s a bright purple knife in his gut. “Oh, that’s...” he tries again with more force, “a pretty good investment on your step-mom’s part,” he calls to the mugger. 

“What?”

“I’m just sayin’...” Peter takes a step to the side, reaching one arm blindly for the wall. His other hand flutters around the ergonomic handle. It does have a pretty nice grip, actually. “I don’t know about longevity, but in terms of return on pointiness, I can confirm... she be pointy.” Peter carefully lowers himself towards the ground. He lets out an involuntary hiss as the movement pulls at the knife, and his stomach. The knife _in_ his stomach. He contemplates pulling it out. Then recalls every first aid lesson May ever gave him. 

He leaves the knife where it is, cheerfully lodged in his abdominals. 

“Are you okay?” the mugger calls. 

Peter pokes at the wound with tentative fingers. They come away slick, and definitely more red than usual. Blood drips from his gloves, and onto the ground below him. 

“I think you should put pressure on that!” the mugger calls out. 

Peter flings another web his way. It falls wide. So he’s a little shaky. It happens. 

“Maybe call an ambulance?” the guy yells. He sounds a bit nervous now. “Uh, I–I wasn’t actually trying to kill anyone, you know—I-I just needed some cash, so I thought–”

Peter shoots another web, this time hitting the mugger directly on the mouth, resulting in some indignant-sounding muffled noises. 

“Yeah, I’ll call _you_ an ambulance...” Peter mutters, admittedly not his sharpest comeback but everything is feeling a little fuzzy at the moment. He takes a deep breath, then presses firmly on the flesh around the blade. Blinding pain shoots through his whole body, spasming his breaths and whiting out his thoughts for a second. 

He comes to with a ringing in his ears, his hand thankfully still firmly clamped against his wound. There’s a ringing happening in his pocket as well. He wiggles his phone out with his free hand. 

“ ‘llo?” he slurs into the phone. 

“Pete.” Tony’s tone is short and demanding. Just like he is. “Getting some pretty concerning notifications about a breach in your suit.”

Peter glances down to see more blood oozing from between his fingers. He’s suddenly struck with the sensation of the ground tilting, then righting itself. “Yeah. There was a breach.” 

He can practically hear Tony pinching between his eyebrows. “Are you hurt?”

Despite some distant part of his brain telling him that this is a Bad Thing, Peter can't quite wrap his mind around the sheer audacity of the situation. “It was purple, Mister Stark,” he mutters.

“Purple?” Tony repeats.

“The knife,” Peter clarifies, gazing almost mesmerized at the blood-stained silicon grip.

“You got _stabbed?”_ Tony demands. He sounds angry now, which Peter doesn’t think is quite fair.

“The knife was... misleading,” he defends, his words starting to slur. “Should’ve put a warning on it.”

Tony starts to ramble. Peter’s not so sure when he starts speaking so quickly, but he hears a lot of words including some that sound like curses he doesn’t know, and then some that sound like questions. He hears the sound of thrusters. He hears his name. Tony is still talking. 

“Hey, focus, kid,” Tony snaps, jolting Peter’s attention back to him. “Can you describe the injury to me? What kind of knife was it?”

Peter looks back at his stomach. “Um… purple?”

He can hear the exasperation in his mentor’s voice. “Yeah, you already said the color. I’m asking how long is the blade? How wide is it? Tell me what you see.”

Peter tries harder to pay attention. His suit has gone dark, as has the cold ground he sits on, and it occurs to him that Spider-Man should not be oozing on the pavement. It seems very uncool.

“I see my badass reputation going up in flames.”

“No great loss there...” Tony mutters under his breath. Over the line, Peter can hear a muffled voice in the background, spouting off vital readings. “Karen says you’re losing a lot of blood, kid. You’re keeping pressure on it, right?”

Peter hums affirmatively, his fingers splayed around the wound. It’s kind of hard to think between the pain and the swimming feeling in his head. “Think I need a bandaid…”

He can just make out the sound of Tony diverting more power to his thrusters. “Just stay with me, kid. I’m almost there.”

“Hm. That’s good…” It’s getting kind of hard for Peter to keep his eyes open now, and he’s so very cold. He wishes he had a blanket. “Just gonna… take a lil’ nap....”

“No, no don’t do that!” Tony says quickly. “I need you to stay awake, you hear me? Stay with me, kid.”

“Yeah… yeah, okay, Ms’ter Stark...” he murmurs as he drifts off.

**X**

Peter wakes to fingers tapping his cheek, his eyes slitting open to reveal a very worried-looking Tony hovering over him in the suit with his faceplate retracted.

“Kid, you with me?”

With a groan Peter flinches away from his mentor’s hand, only to let out a hiss when he feels a sharp pain in his abdomen at the movement. 

“Yeah, I bet that hurts,” Tony says as his eyes sweep over the knife handle that’s protruding from Peter’s gut, now stabilized in place by a doughnut-shaped bandage. With a small smirk he looks up at Peter again. “Who stabbed you, Mrs. Nesbitt?”

Despite the agony he’s in, Peter manages to shoot him an annoyed glare, his mask lenses narrowing. “s’Not funny, Mis’er Stark.”

Tony rolls his eyes, but his expression turns more sympathetic as he says, “Well, don't worry—I've already called the cops on the guy. As for you, time to leave Sesame Street. We have to get back to the tower and get you fixed up.” Carefully he gets one arm underneath Peter’s back and another beneath his knees. “This isn’t going to be a very pleasant trip, but I need you to stay awake this time, okay bud?”

Peter gives him a tiny nod, even as he feels unconsciousness once again starting to lap at the shores of his mind. He braces himself, biting back a scream when Tony lifts him up, using the suit’s strength to cradle him against his chest as they take off into the sky. 

True to his word, Peter manages to stay awake for the short flight to the tower, though admittedly only because Tony barks his name every time he notices the mask lenses start to close. 

After only a few minutes—or so Peter assumes, as he’s a little past being able to keep accurate track of time—they arrive on the small medbay level landing pad Tony had installed after the fourth time Peter had needed to be flown there for various injuries. Being Tony Stark, he’d even gone so far as to put a picnic table out there for the nurses to relax at during lunch, along with a plaque on the door that proclaimed it the _Spider-Man is a Reckless Dumbass Deck—_ something Peter had scowled at the first time he’d seen it but couldn’t really argue with, considering the circumstances which typically led him to visit the place.

Seeing the plaque now, he can’t help but giggle a bit, glancing up at Tony lazily as he says, “Was s’posed to jus’ be funny.”

“What?”

Peter blinks. “The purple knife. S’posed to be funny, not... mean’n’stabby.”

To Peter’s chagrin Tony doesn’t seem to find the humor in his point, instead looking even more worried as he picks up his pace, carrying Peter straight into one of the surgical labs and laying him down on a gurney.

“Where is everyone?” Tony mutters, only for FRIDAY to respond: 

“If I may, Boss, today is the third Sunday of June, which is International Medical Workers Day. You declared it an annual holiday for all medbay staff three years ago.”

Tony blinks. “You mean there’s nobody? Not even a lone nurse at the desk?”

“Affirmative, boss.”

He blows out a long breath. “Okay. Okay, this is fine,” he mutters under his breath as he leans over Peter. “After all, you’re a doctor.” 

Peter frowns. “Think I would remember if I was a doctor, Mis’r Stark.” 

There’s a hum of a laser, then a buzzing on his stomach as Tony removes the temporary bandage and proceeds to cut the suit around the wound. “Not you,” he corrects, grabbing a towel and wiping gently at the blood. “Me. I’m the doctor.”

Peter vaguely hears FRIDAY reminding his mentor what exactly his doctorates are in as the man presses the spider on Peter’s chest and retracts the suit. 

“Alright, smartass,” Tony tells her, carefully cutting the edges of the suit away from the knife. “Let’s start a line and some painkillers—can you tell me what they gave him last time? And call, ah shit… Call May Parker.”

“Nooo...” Peter whines, and makes a feeble grab at the suit as Tony attempts to peel it back further. “No, gimme.”

“Save the modesty for some other time, Pete,” Tony snaps at him.

“Not... that.” Peter makes another weak swipe for the warmth of the suit as Tony eases it up around the handle and away. “Cold.” Peter manages to say before falling back. “Cold.” He repeats again with a little whine, then pouts. A second later, the warm weight of a blanket settles over his legs.

Peter would like to protest, but he’s feeling once again like it’s a good time for sleep. He’s in the medbay, he’s warm and mostly comfortable aside from-

He peeks one eye open and tilts his head down. The knife seems even more garish now than in the alleyway, the purple handle bright and bizarre under the clinical lighting. 

At least his wound is now only slowly oozing blood rather than streaming. 

“Mosquito bite, buddy,” Tony warns him, and there’s a small pinch in the crook of his arm. 

“Oh,” Peter remarks, glancing down at the needle in his arm. “You’re pretty good at that.”

Tony slides the needle out and starts taping down the catheter. “Amazing what you can learn on Youtube these days.” 

Tony’s just finished hooking up the IV when FRIDAY informs over the speaker, “Boss, May Parker is on the phone,” causing Peter to groan. He’s pretty sure the embarrassment is going to get him long before the blood loss does.

“Tony?” May’s voice asks, an edge of concern to it. “FRIDAY said Peter was hurt.”

“Yeah, he got stabbed,” Tony says briskly.

“C’mon, ‘s not that bad…” Peter mutters, earning him a glare from his mentor.

“It’s a kitchen paring knife, probably around a four-inch blade, embedded up to the handle in his right lower quadrant. Happened about 20 minutes ago,” Tony rattles off. “FRIDAY scanned him and it doesn’t look like it hit anything vital, but, uh–” He glances around the empty facility. “–let’s just say medbay’s a little short-staffed today, so we’re flying solo here.”

“Why is–” There’s a pause, followed by that very particular-sounding sigh Peter’s heard far too many times from his aunt over the years. “Next year just get them a cake, Tony.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a grand gesture kind of guy!”

Peter lets out a little moan, partly from the pain and partly just hoping to divert his mentor’s attention back to the task at hand. Tony frowns and fiddles with something on the IV line. Something cool goes into Peter’s veins and suddenly the pain in his stomach dulls quite nicely, and a warm, sleepy feeling comes over him.

“You said it didn’t hit anything vital, right?” May asks.

“No, nothing vital,” Tony confirms. “Weird, or lucky, angle on it. It’s properly embedded, but intestines are intact.”

“Alright.” May sighs. “Sounds like a straightforward removal then. He’s probably already started trying to heal around it. You’re going to need to get your wound kit and your suture kit ready, then sterilize the area, grab the knife, and yank it out.”

“GRAB AND YANK?!” both Tony and Peter exclaim in disbelief. If Peter was on the verge of passing out again just a few minutes earlier, he’s wide awake now.

“I mean, yank cleanly, obviously,” May amends.

Peter shoots his mentor a horrified expression. “That doesn’t sound right, Mister Stark,” he whispers.

“Once you remove the knife, irrigate the wound thoroughly, then his healing factor should be enough to take care of the internal damage,” May explains calmly. “As long as you keep everything sterile, you’ll be fine.”

“Obviously _I’ll_ be fine,” Tony stresses. 

“Peter will be fine too,” May says firmly. 

“Don’t listen to her, Mister Stark,” Peter begs as quietly as he can. “She’s obviously hit her head or–or been replaced by a pod person! This is _crazy!”_

Tony takes a deep breath, staring down at the wound, looking far too much like he’s psyching himself up for the frankly insane task May set him to than Peter is comfortable with. Today is not the day for amatuer surgery. In fact, he could do without that pretty much any day.

“We could always leave it there?” Peter suggests hopefully. “Maybe it will wiggle free on its own? Like a splinter!”

“I heard all that,” May says dryly, then, “It looks like a simple procedure with a pretty low risk of negative outcomes. Peter, the longer you wait the higher the chance of infection, or worse. Besides, I only get fifteen-minute breaks. Better to have me on the line while you take care of this, right?”

“Okay, yeah, okay,” Tony says, before scrambling around the room and searching the various cupboards for supplies, asking quick questions of May and FRIDAY as he does. Peter swallows hard as he watches his mentor place the blue wrapped parcels of equipment on a tray next to Peter’s gurney. 

It feels different, just him and Tony in the bay, compared to the usual bustle of the medical team around his bed. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him, per se, but the nervous little looks Tony keeps flicking at him out of the corner of his eye are not filling him with too much confidence. Tony puts on a face shield, then scrubs Peter’s stomach down with foul smelling iodine. Peter’s nose wrinkles up in reflex. 

Tony stops. “Do NOT sneeze,” he orders Peter. “I just sterilized this.” 

May laughs over the phone—and Peter’s sure she should not be laughing—as Tony injects some local anaesthetic around the wound. Then he washes his hands, scrubbing methodically up to the elbows, and pulls on two separate pairs of gloves before sitting down on the stool.

“Ready, Pete?” Tony asks, looking completely unprepared himself. He picks up a huge wad of gauze as Peter shakes his head forcefully in response. 

He halts his movements. "What's the problem, kid?"

Peter gives him a wide eyed look, accompanied by a gesture into the air that indicates the entirety of the ridiculous situation.

"Tony? What's going on?" May asks.

"He's doubting my medical expertise,” Tony quips.

"Because _you don’t have any!"_ Peter exclaims in frustration.

"Okay, but _I_ do," May interrupts, her voice calm, but firm. "Peter, I know this is not ideal, but it's really important that we get the knife out as soon as possible, before infection sets in or it gets jostled and nicks something, because then we really _will_ need a surgeon. If I didn’t believe this was something Tony could handle, I never would have given him the go ahead. So I need you to trust us—both of us—alright?”

Peter lets her familiar voice soothe him. After all, Tony has performed way more complicated repairs than this, and Peter’s basically just a biologically derived mechanical system, right? 

He takes a deep breath then nods to Tony, who looks somewhat calmer at May’s reassurance too. 

Tony nods back. “Okay May, we’re ready.” 

“Alright, Tony, now carefully grip the knife while holding the gauze padding with your other hand. We’re going to do this as cleanly as possible, so check the wash is ready to go. Just pull smoothly, okay?”

Tony swallows, Peter watching despondently as he gets situated. He doesn’t look up at Peter again before he says again, “All set.”

“Alright, I’ll countdown from three,” May says—pausing just long enough that Peter has time to whimper mournfully as he accepts his tragic fate—before continuing, “In three, two, one-”

There’s a sudden sharp pull in his abdomen, Peter crying out only for the sound to fade into a groan when he feels a painful pressure at the site.

He swivels his head to look at Tony, who is staring at him with wide eyes, one hand shoved against Peter’s stomach while the other brandishes the bloody purple knife. With a clatter Tony drops the weapon onto the equipment tray. 

“Holy shit,” Tony says with a heavy exhale. “Really just did that.” 

“Ugh,” Peter groans again. His insides can confirm Tony really just did that. 

“FRIDAY, can you remind me to do a contaminant assessment on that to check what exotic New York City pestilence might have entered Peter’s bloodstream?” Tony asks while he picks up the saline with his free hand, May talking him through the irrigation.

Tony’s suddenly regained his usual energy, wisecracking with May and sounding like he’s enjoying himself far too much now considering he’s still poking around Peter’s insides. ‘Gleeful’ is the term Peter would use for the expression on Tony’s face as he announces he can see signs of tissue healing already. Peter would be more offended if he wasn’t so overwhelmingly tired.

Tony notices. He ceases the poking of Peter’s guts. “Hey May, is it alright if he sleeps now?” 

“Of course,” she says. “My break’s over anyway. I’ll leave you to close up. See you in about six hours, honey,” she adds to Peter.

“I’ll have dinner on the table, dear,” Tony quips back. 

Peter can practically hear May’s eye roll before the connection beeps out. 

Tony turns back to Peter. “Alright, young buck.” He picks up the suture kit. “Go to sleep. But don’t snore, because I need to concentrate.” 

“Sure thing, Doc,” Peter says through a yawn. Then somehow, despite the odd tugging of the stitches going into his stomach, he succumbs once more to sleep. 

**X**

Peter wakes to the soft blue sky of dawn streaming over the New York skyline, feeling intensely disoriented. It takes two bleary blinks before he recognizes the view. It’s the giant windows in the Stark Tower living room. Another blink and he notices he’s still on his gurney, the metal railings raised and an IV dripping gently above his head. Blankets are piled on him, and the remote that controls his pain relief rests on the pillow near his head. 

The tone of a heart rate monitor is beeping away somewhere, followed by soft snoring. He twists his head, unwilling to risk disrupting his sleepy cocoon. The room is dim, except for one soft lamp over an armchair in the corner. He recognizes one of May’s cardigans draped across it. Multiple take-out containers and glasses are scattered across the coffee table, along with a deck of cards, and bafflingly, a game of Operation.

Sure, Peter thinks, those two would have an impromptu party around the unconscious post-surgical patient. The adults in his life are super weird, he decides, and pulls the blankets up under his chin. He hopes May is sleeping in a real bed somewhere, although the light and presence of the cardigan indicates she’s awake and around.

Another soft snore and Peter locates Tony. He’s sprawled out on the armchair right by Peter’s gurney, head tipped uncomfortably onto his chest. A tablet glows by his side, steadily pinging with Peter’s vital signs, while a folded-over piece of paper is caught under Tony’s left hand, a marker held limply in his right. Peter spies his own name on it.

He wiggles forwards, feeling surprisingly little pain, and sneakily swipes the paper away. Tony snorts in his sleep, then recrosses his feet without opening his eyes. Peter holds his breath until he settles. 

He squints at the folded paper.

‘For Pincushion Parker’ is written on the front. 

He flicks open the card. 

A badly drawn purple knife takes up the top half of the page. It has angry eyebrows and little fists. An arrow points to the top of the blade, along with the label: NOT A TOY. POINTY BIT STAYS OUTSIDE THE BODY AT ALL TIMES. 

Peter snorts, which hurts just a little, then sets the card down on the mattress with a small sigh. 

He’s never going to live this one down.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you'd like: [blondsak](https://blondsak.tumblr.com/), [reachingforaspark](https://reachingforaspark.tumblr.com/), & [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/)


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